This chapter is dedicated to Cap'nFrances. Thanks so much for the kind review!

6

Jupiter Station, 1840 hours, October 6, 2149

Harris stood outside the medical unit at Jupiter Station, shaking his head. It had taken fourty seven hours for the Chimera to return to the Sol system from Cold Station 12, and according to the team's medic, Reed's fever had been holding steady at 104 for nearly a full day. Apparently Stephens had felt obligated to play nursemaid for the man throughout their journey, even trying to get Reed to drink chilled electrolye solutions and helping him get to the head. According to Stephens' own report, Reed had become delirious and spent most of the journey muttering incoherently, so it was highly unlikely that the problematic Brit would have any recollection of the medic's presence.

Instead of being treated at Starfleet Medical, which would doubtless raise too many questions with Starfleet proper, Reed was currently being examined and treated by a Section 31 doctor in orbit at Jupiter Station.

Reed was a good enough demolitions man, but there were plenty of recruits who didn't need to be convinced of the moral justification for their missions at nearly every briefing, and who didn't burn through sick days so damn quickly. Harris shook his head, watching dispassionately as Reed hugged his meager blanket tightly around his shoulders and shivered on the cold exam room table before shaking with more coughs.

Pathetic. Harris shook his head and turned away from the pitiful sight in the two-way mirror. The man was far more trouble than he was worth. Something had to be done.

Just over an hour later the team had docked at the San Francisco spaceport. Malcolm was dimly aware of being helped off of the ship and into a flitter by Zuger and Stephens. He was surprised that they would be the ones helping him, since neither one of them had ever seemed to regard him as more than a tactical and ordinance manual with a medical alert bracelet. The idea that they were actually helping 'Malady Malcolm' to do anything struck him as very strange, but he was in no condition to refuse their help, let alone give too much thought to what their motivation was for providing it. He grimaced as another coughing fit started. Zuger had won the pool, which might account for his uncharacteristic behavior, and Stephens had been good about looking in on him during the trip. Malcolm waited for the coughs to die out, and when they finally did, he rested his forehead against the cool glass of the flitter's window, tiredly watching as the hazy but familiar sights of San Francisco passed by. It looked like a blurry watercolor was passing before his eyes, and trying to focus on any one spot made his head pound. He sighed carefully and closed his eyes, hoping that they were taking him home.

He was woken some time later by someone roughly shaking his arm. "C'mon, Reed," Stephens' deep voice came from high above him. "We're at your building."

Malcolm blinked copiously, trying to clear his vision in order to see where they actually were. He could only dimly focus on things less than half a metre in front of himself, and everything more than a metre away looked like one large colorful smudge, but the shapes, colors and sounds seemed right for his neighborhood.

The flitter's passenger door slammed shut and Zuger's voice came towards him. "He's out of it, Frank. The boss says his fever's so high he don't know what's goin' on. We could'a left him anywhere an' he wouldn't know the difference."

"Shut it, Zuger," Stephens barked. "We have our orders, and even if we didn't, I'm not gonna dump anyone as sick as he is in some random alley just 'cause you think it would be funny." He hauled Malcolm upright and pulled one of the Englishman's arms around his own shoulders. The next time Stephens spoke, his voice was softer and the tone was actually friendly. "Okay, Reed. One foot in front of the other. Don't give him any more ammo."

Malcolm nodded, surprised by the unexpected helpfulness, but too dazed to dwell on it for long.

Stephens raised his voice again and addressed the sullen member of their party. "Now, help me with 'im." Zuger heaved a heavy sigh and then Malcolm was aware that he was being supported by both of them and that they were bringing him towards the front door of what looked like his building. "We get him home, tell him Harris' orders, and then we split. That's what the boss said to do, and that's what we're gonna do. End of discussion."

Malcolm started coughing when they got onto the lift, and he hadn't stopped by the time they reached his apartment door. Stephens tried the knob and gave a frustrated sigh. "Reed, we need your keys." Malcolm tried to help, but his hands were shaking too badly to be much use. He managed to choke out "Left… front… pocket…" Stephens grumbled and fished the keys out of Malcolm's pocket, then he went though the key ring until he found the apartment key, and roughly a minute later a severely embarrassed Malcolm was hauled none-too gently into his apartment.

They got him to the couch while he was still coughing and manhandled him for a second, turning him around for some unknown reason, and he closed his eyes. He was feeling queasy enough already, and the fact that everything around him was blurred didn't help matters. If anything, it only added to his disorientation. Suddenly he felt like he was falling, but when he landed on the cushions he realized that Zuger and Stephens had just been getting him into position so he wouldn't end up face-down on his couch. Someone, probably Stephens, peeled him out of his jacket and tossed it aside. The coughs died out and Malcolm shivered, hugging himself in a feeble attempt to feel warmer. When he had been wearing his jacket and the two other men had been supporting him, he had been able to feel some of their body heat through the intermediate layers of clothing, but now even that meager warmth was gone. The blur that he thought was Zuger stepped away and headed for the front door, while Stephens went off in another direction, only to return about a minute later carrying a puffy blue mass. The puffy blue thing turned out to be the comforter from Malcolm's bed, which Stephens un-bunched and gruffly spread over him. Malcolm nodded his thanks, not wanting to speak through chattering teeth, and hitched the blanket up to his chin. He heard Stephens put something down on the coffee table, and although Malcolm squinted in the general direction the sound had come from, he couldn't tell what the object was.

Stephens cleared his throat. "There's a water bottle on the table, Reed, and I'm putting an electrolyte drink next to you." A slight weight settled on top of the blanket between his side and the back of the couch, and when he squinted Malcolm could make out the fuzzy shape of a bottle filled with orange liquid just above his hip. "It's got protein concentrate mixed in, like I gave you earlier. Drink it as soon as you can and get to bed. Harris's orders are for you to take it easy and just lie low here until you feel better."

Malcolm shook his head, confused by the orders. "What…" he managed, "what about Starfleet Medical? I…" he tried unsuccessfully to hold back a few wrenching coughs, then gasped out, "I might need..."

Stephens cut him off with an impatient sigh. "You've already been to a doctor. Hell, you've been to two, if we count that fella at Cold Station 12. The doc said you'd be okay, so just rest. Got that?" He poked Malcolm in the shoulder with two fingers to punctuate his next words. "Just. Stay. Here. "

As the IME article had promised, his muscles were painfully sore as a result of the fever and Malcolm tried not to groan or flinch away from Stephens' less than gentle touch. He gritted his teeth, pulling the blanket closer with a shiver and blearily glaring up at the medic-shaped blur standing over him. "Understood." He shivered again and shut his eyes tight, tired of trying to make sense of his blurred environment and utterly sick of being poked at, shunted about and viewed as a nuisance for something which was completely beyond his control. "Now get out."

Stephens sighed again, and for a moment Malcolm thought that the man sounded sad. So Stephens wasn't perfectly happy? What a shame.

"Okay, Reed. Feel better. I'll come back to check on you tomorrow. "

Malcolm let out a bitter huff, kicking off his boots and muttering grumpily to himself as he heard the other man's footsteps head towards the door. "If for one second I thought you actually meant that, I'd have a bloody heart attack."

The front door closed behind Stephens, leaving Malcolm alone in his flat. He fumbled one hand out from under the blanket and reached for the sports drink. His coordination was shot to hell and he could barely see, so managing to get a firm grip on the bottle took some doing. Once he had a hold of it he turned onto his side, since that seemed to help him breathe easier and provoke fewer coughs, and then he opened the bottle and had a few mouthfuls of the bright orange stuff which Stephens had left. He made a face at the sweet, gritty sludge, screwed the cap back on and put the bottle within easy reach before closing his eyes. It was going to be an abysmal couple of weeks.

Harris glanced at the timepiece on his desk impatiently. He was reaching for his comm. button when there was a knock at his door. He called "come," his office door opened and Zuger and Stephens walked in. They stopped in fornt of his desk and came to attention. He waved an impatient hand. "At ease."

He sat back in his chair, regarding the men before him. Stephens shifted to a position which vaguely resembled parade rest, and Zuger started surreptitiously picking at the thumbnail of his right hand with his neighboring index finger. Harris had a feeling that his team's resident cudgel would have liked nothing better than to flop down into one of the chairs opposite his desk and prop his feet up on his CO's desk. Zuger was a blunt instrument, no doubt about that, but Harris didn't need his team to be spit-and-polish types. He needed them to follow orders and get results. "Report."

The men filled him in. Stephens did most of the talking while Zuger just looked bored. "We left him at home as you ordered, sir, and notified him of your instructions."

"And did he understand my instructions?"

The medic frowned slightly, shaking his head. "I believe so, sir, but he asked about going to Starfleet Medical."

Harris tensed but didn't let his concern show. This could throw a wrench into his plans. "And what did you tell him?" he asked evenly.

"I repeated your orders, sir, that he should just lie low and stay home until he feels better." Stephens shook his head again, looking worried. "But sir, sick as he is, shouldn't Reed be receiving medical care? He's almost blind and he can barely stand. If he's left on his own I'm not sure he'll—"

Harris cut the man off with a wave of his hand. "I've made my decision, Stephens. Are you questioning my judgement?"

The medic snapped back to attention. "No sir."

"Good." He sat back again and started looking over the most recent threat assessments on his PADD. "Your accounts have been credited with wages appropriate to your official occupations. I'll notify you both of our next mission within the week. Dismissed."

The men nodded and turned to leave. Zuger headed straight out, but Stephens paused by the door for a moment and glanced back at his CO, looking perturbed.

Harris smiled grimly to himself once the men had gone. The Section had no use for a man of questionable health who couldn't put aside his moral qualms in order to do what was necessary. In the unlikely event that Reed survived this illness, he might turn out to be worth the trouble after all. As for Stephens, there were always contingencies in place if he turned out to be a liability as well. After all, they were in a dangerous line of work, and accidents happened all the time.

TBC